Daniel Edward Moore

John 1:1

In the beginning was the word and the word was tired,
but even half-conscious I was seduced by
the slurred speech of the holy.

Oh, Christ the carbohydrate
chased by twelve shots of whiskey,
take me to thy church.

Be gone from my lips, oh, demon expresso,
oh, CPAP hose making love with my airway
to keep my oxygen happy.

If the word becomes flesh, something I can kiss,
with a glassblower’s flaming tongue,
summon me quick, so the dead in me

may rise from the heart’s silent ruins.

Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His poems have appeared in Phoebe, Southern Humanities Review and others. His work is forthcoming in Action Spectacle Magazine, The Meadow Journal, The Chiron Review and Delta Poetry Review. His book, “Waxing the Dents,” from Brick Road Poetry Press.